


the gifts that take

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Christmas Presents, Gen, Light Angst, this is not fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:26:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21880132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: Mother had told him to wait until breakfast time to see his gifts; she had informed him that good Gautier boys have patience and discipline, that they not are subject to the silly whims of other children their age. If he is to be Gautier scion his parents want him to be—that he should want to be, if only by proxy—he must remain in his room, feigning sleep and quashing his own admittedly-childish whims in favor of his parents’ envisioned ideals of propriety.It's Seiros Day in the Gautier household.~~~Sylvain Week Christmas Prelude, Day 1: Presents
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38
Collections: Sylvain Week Christmas Prelude 2019





	the gifts that take

It’s quiet in the Gautier household, the heavy grandfather clock’s monotonous ticking the only sound as Sylvain creeps out from his bedroom. The hinges of his door creak wearily, the old age of their dwelling showing itself in the tired, rusted voices of antique brass hinges and expensive, oaken wooden floors. Their grumbling complaints recall Father’s lectures of countless, boring achievements of older Gautier generations; it is the eternal answer to why Sylvain cannot make friends with “common folk”, why Sylvain must always stay ahead of his peers. 

_This is the home of my father and his father before him_. 

His voice booms in Sylvain’s mind, the refrain looping over and over, indelibly branding into his mind the reminder of his family’s “storied” history and its ties to this ancient, groaning museum of a house. But Sylvain is seven years old, too young to truly understand Father’s scripted lines, too young to know what makes his family’s past important, too young to care about legacy and honor.

 _Don’t touch that._

_Sit down._

_Behave yourself_.

Day in, day out; so many rules, so many reprimands. All the ways to be a proper Gautier heir, to achieve that Miklan never has, to earn the right to be showered in affection. 

Sylvain listens—he wants to please Mother and Father. 

He wants to be a good son. An ideal son. 

Sylvain knows he can be. No—he knows that he _must_ be, especially if he wants to keep his parents from eyeing him with the same loathsome disappointment that they level at Miklan.There have been many moments (too many moments) that were close calls, their faces morphing into disdain, stern features turning to ugly grimaces of apathy and disgust with every minor misstep. 

Every docked point on a graded assignment is a mockery of their family’s good name. Every verbal blunder is a transgression besmirching the impeccable Gautier reputation. Every failure to flawlessly charm high society is a disaster worthy of chastisement. 

For today, though, Sylvain gives in to the temptation to be a little naughty, the lure of Seiros Day presents lighting a small, wriggling fire of anticipation in his tummy. He’d hardly slept, the promise of shiny new toys and captivating new books dancing animatedly through his dreams, tickling him back to consciousness well before the sun had risen.

Mother had told him to wait until breakfast time to see his gifts; she had informed him that good Gautier boys have patience and discipline, that they not are subject to the silly whims of other children their age. If he is to be Gautier scion his parents want him to be—that he should want to be, if only by proxy—he must remain in his room, feigning sleep and quashing his own admittedly-childish whims in favor of his parents’ envisioned ideals of propriety.

But—! Ohh, he wants to see his presents _so badly_. And a quick peek will be fine so long as his parents don’t find out. He’ll be extra good in his studies later this week to make up for it.

The door lets out another low whine as Sylvain tentatively presses against it once more. He freezes again, waiting with bated breath for any signs of stirring from the two largest bedrooms at the end of the hall. His parents sleep, but never peacefully, barely dipping into REM and always ready to scold at a moments’ notice. Miklan, too, is asleep, the door to the room next to Sylvain’s firmly closed, no light escaping the gaps.

He counts, unconsciously holding his breath. _One, two, three…_ At twenty, he exhales, maybe a bit too loudly, face slightly reddened and hands trembling at the accidental exertion. There’s no noise from his parents’ rooms other than the soft echo of Father’s snoring.

With a flash of daring, Sylvain pushes his door all the way open, the resulting sound barely more than a rippling whisper. Finally freed, he gleefully dashes out, darting for the stairs as he dodges particularly well-trod creaky floorboards. Leaning his weight on the banister and stepping lightly, he manages to make it to the cold marble flooring of their entryway without disturbing the muted peace of the early morning. He banks a hard left, no longer bothering to hide his footsteps, and crashes to his knees in front of the yule tree.

Brightly-wrapped gifts in a myriad of colors await him, the tree itself flashing with gently twinkling lights and expensive baubles, artfully hung by a maid nearly a week ago. The few snatches of non-educational television he’s stolen in between his heavily-prescripted activities have told stories of families adorning Seiros Day trees together, but as far as Sylvain can remember, his family has never partaken in that particular collective tradition. 

Sylvain pushes back the twinge of disappointment. It’s a beautifully decorated tree, if impersonal. Maybe he should thank Lydia, add in a bowing kiss on her hand. His parents might not like that, though, showing propriety to the servants.

Either way, it’s a question for after Sylvain has had a chance to see his presents. He can’t risk tearing any wrapping paper or breaking any tape, but there are a couple boxes with festive bows and bags with carefully-set paper that he can sneak a look at. 

He sorts and counts, carefully shaking the boxes that will have to wait, guessing their contents by their size and mass. One unexpectedly heavy package clatters loudly against the floor when he loses his grip, the muted thud against the extravagant oriental rug piercing through the silence, possibly reverberating up the stairs. 

Sylvain squeaks at the noise, rapidly calculating how long it would take him to reset the boxes and scamper away. He counts again, waiting for the telltale click of a door or creak of floorboards. _One, two, three_ … 

The minute stretches long, but Sylvain finally allows himself to breathe again, reassured that he hasn’t been caught. A quick recount assures Sylvain that, yes, he has twelve presents from his parents, from various distant relatives, from Father’s acquaintances, four of which he can surreptitiously take a look at now. 

The first bag contains action figures—Loog and Kyphon, their arms posed triumphantly—and a small book of the legends of their exploits, the accompanying card signed in a crisp flourish by a man named Rodrigue Fraldarius. Sylvain vaguely remembers meeting his sons once, the elder gap-toothed and sharp, the younger tiny and cradled in his brother’s arms. The smaller boy had cried when Sylvain had tried to offer him his hand, his brother laughing raucously the whole time.

It’s as he’s examining the third gift (a small, cubic box containing a wooden puzzle, similar to the ones that already adorn a shelf in Sylain’s room at his father’s insistence) that there’s a quiet thud and a scoff behind him.

Sylvain yelps, dropping the toy to cover his mouth as he turns slowly to the source.

“Sneaking around, brat? Aren’t you supposed to be better than that?” Miklan’s voice, raspy with sleep, cuts through the air with the precision of a skillfully-honed blade, heavy and filled with an unfamiliar ire. 

Sylvain flushes. “I was just—I’m just a little curious! I was going to put them back before Mother and Father woke.”

“Of course you were. Too spoiled to even realize how good you have it, always wanting more.”

“W-what?”

“Precious baby Sylvie, perfect son, nothing like stupid, old Miklan. Shower the prodigy in presents, forget about the older failure.” Miklan waves vaguely at the pile of packages left untouched by Sylvain. Only two bear Miklan’s name. Recognition sinks into Sylvain’s stomach, the cause of Miklan’s sour mood obvious; there’s no doubt that it’s Sylvain’s fault that Miklan was forgotten, his Seiros Day ruined by the mere existence of his younger brother.

Miklan sneers down at him, eyes cold as he towers over Sylvain. His voice morphs into a poor, high-pitched mockery of Mother’s. “ _‘Look at Sylvain, Miklan! Look at how diligent he is in his studies! Look at how talented he is at chess! Look at how well he plays the cello! If only you were more like your brother!’_ Yeah, of course I want to be more like a suck-up brat.” 

“I’m not—I’m not a suck-up! And I’m not a brat!”

Miklan snorts. “Whatever, punk. Lie to yourself about your bootlicking. Keep on pretending to be Mummy and Daddy’s perfect little angel. They’ll get sick of you too.”

Bile rises in Sylvain’s throat, his words clawing their way out, choked and twisted in the image of his parents’ disapproval raining down and drowning him like it does Miklan. “It’s not my fault you’re mean and dumb.”

Rage flashes over Miklan’s face. He advances, dropping to a crouch, his face uncomfortably close to Sylvain’s. “You want to say that again, brat?”

A spiteful spike of defiance burns through Sylvain. “You’re mean and dumb!”

Miklan grabs him, Sylvain’s pajamas constricting painfully around his neck as he yanks, his breath hot and uncomfortable and smelly against Sylvain’s face. “You don’t know anything. Everything would have been so much better if you’d never been born.”

“Let me go!” Sylvain wriggles, hitting against Miklan’s hands. “Miklan, you’re hurting me!”

Miklan laughs, hollow and ringing. “If only you knew, baby brother. Sometimes I wish I could really hurt you.”

Miklan drops him, Sylvain’s back colliding with the sharp edge of a wrapped box, one or two smaller presents crushed under his backside. He stands, sparing Sylvain one more repulsed glance before stomping loudly away, calling for their parents as he storms up the stairs. 

Sylvain whimpers as he fights back tears from the pain.

The lecture he ends up receiving is less angry, more dismissive, Father’s voice barely more than a whisper, but the displeasure and quiet fury etched on his face speak volumes more than his words. Miklan’s sneer from the corner weighs heavily against the back of Sylvain’s neck, his bitter laughter still rattling through Sylvain’s mind.

In the end, he doesn’t lose any Seiros Day presents, conditioned, of course, on reports from his tutors about his lessons over the next weeks. No, he loses something far more important.

Miklan’s mockery. Miklan’s resentment. Miklan’s hands reaching for his throat. The memory of the morning sinks into Sylvain’s bones, a far more lasting lesson than Father’s words. 

The loss of his brother’s affection, the loss of trust in his brother—Sylvain’s faith in the one person living in this musty, decaying home who he thought could love him dwindles to nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! you can find me on twitter [@euphemeas](https://twitter.com/euphemeas).


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